


The Weight of Love

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: Hurt/Comfort prompt fills from Twitter1. Shirt shifting just enough to have bandages peeking out2. Gotta Stay Quiet/Dramatic Injury Reveal3. "Easy there" and broken ribs (plus pining)(Chapter specific tags in A/N)





	1. Shirt shifting just enough to have bandages peeking out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Hurt Jesse, Light Whump, Worried/Protective Hanzo

Jesse comes back to him bruised.

Hanzo hates it more than he can say. The knowledge that someone laid their hands on Jesse sits like gravel between his lungs, heavy and sharp. His fingers curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, as self-recriminations bubble up. He should have pushed harder to be included on that roster. To think he was simply waiting here at the Watchpoint for Jesse to return when he could have been watching his back.

Jesse is slow walking off the Orca, not quite limping but moving so stiffly it’s just as painful to watch. Hanzo starts to go to him, but even from where he's standing he can see the grim set of Jesse’s jaw—he’s determined to make it off under his own power. So instead Hanzo stays where he is and counts up the livid marks he can see, speculating about the ones he can’t. There’s a dark bruise under his eye and a welt on his forearm, but Hanzo’s eyes keep returning to the dark lines at Jesse’s throat. They look a little like the outline of a hand.

“Hey there, darlin’.” Jesse smiles crookedly, almost a little self-effacing, and huffs a mirthless little laugh. “It is really that bad?”

It’s only then Hanzo realizes he must be scowling. He tries for something softer, but fears his expression settles into little more than a grimace. He sighs and runs his hand over his mouth, as if he can wipe his face into neutrality.

“I’m just glad you’re back,” Hanzo murmurs. He starts to reach for Jesse, but he doesn’t know where to touch, so he settles for taking his bag instead. Jesse, though, has no such worry. He curls one arm around Hanzo’s back and leans down, tilting his head for a kiss.

Jesse’s swollen lower lip is almost feverish against Hanzo’s, and the catch of the scab where it split makes him hesitate. Jesse doesn’t, however, pressing harder, and soon the taste of copper mars the kiss. Hanzo pulls away to run his thumb over the reopened cut.

“It’s nothin’.”

That might be. But it looks like something in the context of everything else. Hanzo’s thumb skirts the edge of the bruise on his face, but his eyes return to Jesse’s neck. Hanzo can picture the hands that much have been on Jesse’s throat, and that stokes the anger banked in his gut. That’s so much more personal that the danger they all usually face. What had happened out there?

“Hey now.” Jesse bumps his chin gently with his knuckles, disrupting Hanzo’s thoughts. “I see you frettin’. I’m still in one piece.”

“That might be so, but you still look terrible.”

Jesse huffs, either amused or surprised, and shakes his head.

“Well I feel rode hard and put up wet. Could sleep a week, if we’re bein’ honest.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Jesse looks around, but it’s clear that the two of them can be spared, so Hanzo takes his left hand and tugs him in the direction of the barracks.

Hanzo has to watch himself to keep from setting a pace Jesse can’t match. He might not be complaining, but he’s in pain. Hanzo wonders if he should be leading him to the medbay instead, but no, surely if he were seriously injured someone would have radioed ahead to Dr. Ziegler. Lucio was with them, and he’s a more than competent medic, so if he decided against it Hanzo will have to trust his judgement.

Hanzo stops them at his own bunk, unwilling to subject Jesse to the extra ten meters of walking to get to his. As the door slides open Hanzo thinks, not for the first time, that the room looks unwelcoming. It’s still as austere as when he claimed it, with only his utilitarian possessions for decoration.

“Home sweet home,” Jesse says, without a trace of irony.

Jesse knows how Hanzo feels about shoes, so he starts to bend to take off his boots, but stops with a wince. Without preamble, Hanzo moves Jesse’s arm to his shoulder and crouches down, letting Jesse use him for balance and he lifts his lover’s foot and removes the dusty boot, first right then left. He sets them upright by the door, and wonders if he’ll find time to oil them before Jesse thinks to do it.

“Go lie down,” Hanzo says as he rises back to his feet.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Hanzo unzips Jesse’s bag and pulls out the laundry, tossing it into his own hamper. Behind him, he hears Jesse undressing. He turns with his arm outstretched, ready to take those clothes as well.

Jesse’s undershirt shirt has ridden up as he rid himself of the brown blouse, revealing a thick rectangle of gauze. The middle is faintly discolored with yellow. It’s impossible to tell if it was a glancing blow, or a real attempt to gut him. Hanzo can’t tear his eyes away.

“Han?”

Jesse is staring at him, the beginnings of concern on his face. Hanzo shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the sudden spike of worry and protective anger, and plucks the blouse out of Jesse’s hands. He doesn’t watch as Jesse finishes stripping to his boxers, though he catches glimpses of more bruises out of the corner of his eye.

Jesse flops onto his bed with an indulgent sigh, and Hanzo wonders if that’s the end of it. Jesse is here, after all, alive and sure to recover, if not exactly well. Something about the unknown wound still leaves Hanzo uneasy.

“You think real loud, you know that?”

“I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“How’m I supposed to do that with all that racket? C’mere.”

It’s not even late afternoon, far too early to even begin considering sleep, but Hanzo goes and sits down on the bed. Jesse turns and presses his face into Hanzo’s hip. Entirely of its own accord, Hanzo’s hand finds its way into Jesse’s hair, and Jesse purrs like an overindulged cat.

“Are you sure you can sleep? I could go ask Dr. Ziegler—”

“’M fine just like this.” Jesse sounds sure, if tired.

“If you say so.”

Hanzo continues to pet Jesse’s hair, as much to soothe himself as anything else. Jesse’s breathing begins to slow into deep, even breaths that surely preclude any bruised ribs. That's a better line of thought, considering all the ways Jesse isn't hurt, and Hanzo tries to distract himself with that. He has started to suspect he’s fallen asleep when Jesse says,

“It was bounty hunters. Not sure how they caught up with me. Guess all these good deeds ain’t doin' much for my reputation.”

Hanzo’s hand stops for a moment, and he glances again at the bruises on Jesse’s neck. They seem somehow even more sinister, remembering that Jesse’s bounty allows for him to be turned in dead. Biting his lip, Hanzo forces himself to go back to carding his fingers through Jesse’s hair.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“_Pshaw_. I can take care of myself.”

“Nonetheless. I’m sure you dispatched them far too kindly.”

Jesse’s quiet for a moment before a laugh bubbles up.

“That’s a fucked up kind of compliment, you know that, right?”

“I stand by it.”

“Of course you do.” Jesse snakes his arm around Hanzo’s middle, tilting him closer. “You wouldn’t be my magnificent bastard if you didn’t.”

Hanzo smiles in spite of himself and slides down until he’s laying flat. Jesse curls into him, and when Hanzo runs his fingers down his spine, he can feel how Jesse melts. Right there he decides the rest of the afternoon is a small price to pay if Jesse can find solace from his aches. 


	2. Gotta Stay Quiet/Dramatic Injury Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Hurt Hanzo, Major Injury

Hanzo fires just before a shot rings out.

His arrow pierces the unarmored neck of a Talon goon, but something impacts his side hard enough to make him stagger in shock. He tries to blink away the afterimages of the muzzle flash, but his vision won’t clear enough for him to see what hit him.

“Let’s _go_,” Jesse hisses, tugging his arm, and that’s the best idea Hanzo has heard all night.

The two of them are hopelessly out numbered. Shooting their way back to the rendezvous will be nigh impossible, not to mention dangerous to the rest of the team. They had been relying on stealth to escape, but that gunshot will surely have alerted anyone nearby to their presence.

On instinct, Hanzo presses his hand to his side, and he feels something hot and wet leaking through the fabric of his jacket. He presses harder, but it keeps coming. Jesse is still pulling, starting to run, and, numb with adrenaline, Hanzo follows.

Jesse barrels through a door and into the night. It takes him less than a second to pick a direction, and then he’s off again. Jesse’s legs are longer, but Hanzo’s never had trouble keeping up with him before. That should scare him, but he can’t think about it and keep his footing. He feels only loosely connected to his body—the only part that feels real is the throbbing wound under his hand—and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other is taxing him to his limit.

Abruptly, Jesse stops. Hanzo pants as quietly as he can through his slack jaw and tries not to vocalize his relief. Then he realizes they are standing in front of a sturdy fence, the gate padlocked shut. Hanzo hears faint shouts, not close but not far enough away for comfort. For an agonizing instant, he thinks Jesse has lead them into a dead end, but then Jesse reaches out and makes short work of the lock with his left hand.

The gate squeals faintly as Jesse pushes it open. They both freeze, but if anyone heard they didn’t connect the sound with them. As Hanzo slips through, he still has enough presence of mind to make sure no blood smears onto the metal. Jesse shuts the gate behind them, winding the chain back in an attempt to hide what he’d done.

Hanzo looks around the alley. In the dark, there’s not much to tell but the stench of garbage. He sways on his feet, trying to puzzle out what they’re meant to do next, but Jesse simply crowds him into an alcove on the far side of a dumpster instead of explaining. It’s by far the darkest part of the alley, untouched by any of the street or security lights. Hanzo wonders faintly how Jesse even saw it as he hisses a soft warning into Hanzo’s ear and presses Hanzo bodily into the rough bricks.

The pain is so much more profound with nothing to do but stand and wait. Hanzo imagines he can feel the bullet working its way deeper with every silent, shallow breath. The blood keeps coming, leaking out between his fingers, no matter how hard he presses. Even standing still, he is starting to feel dizzy, and in the dark he has nothing he can fixate on to reassure himself that the world has not suddenly begun to pitch and roll around him.

Hanzo hears voices, but they seem distant. He knows that can’t be right. Talon will not have been that far behind them. What will he do if they are found? After all, if Jesse wasn’t pressed against him, Hanzo knows he would have already collapsed under the gravity of his wound. There is a fog tugging at the edges of his thoughts, but it hasn’t yet settled so heavily that he can’t be galled about it. It doesn’t feel right to have Jesse curled around him when it puts Jesse between Hanzo and the threat. Especially when he is already hurt and Jesse may yet escape unharmed.

It seems to be an eternity before Jesse pulls away. Suddenly bereft of his warmth, Hanzo shivers, though the night hasn’t gotten any colder. He sags into the wall, trying to gather his strength, but he doesn’t push away until he hears the creak of the gate. Hanzo only manages to take a few shaky steps before his body collapses. He lands just wrong, falling onto something that digs into his side, and the pain is so profound he can’t even make a sound and all his senses succumb to the wash of static.

When the static passes, he’s no longer sprawled on the ground. Jesse has pulled him into his arms and is tugging his hand away from the wound. Tucked against Jesse’s chest, he feels the precise moment his breath catches.

It’s bad, and Hanzo knows it. The window on them both making it out has closed, but Jesse could make it on his own. Hanzo reaches up with the hand that isn’t soaked with his own blood and turns Jesse’s face towards his own.

“Go on,” Hanzo whispers. “I want you to.”

Jesse tenses, almost taut enough to snap. He doesn’t even breathe. Hanzo tries to make out his expression, but it’s lost in the darkness.

When Jesse lowers him back to the ground, Hanzo feels a perverse sort of relief. Jesse understands what has to be done. Hanzo tries to gather his now slippery thoughts, trying to find something kinder to say in parting.

Then Jesse starts unwinding his serape and pulls his knife out of his boot.

“Jess—” Hanzo starts, but Jesse presses his hand across Hanzo’s mouth and in a voice that’s little more than a breath says,

“You _shut up_.”

There’s a steel in Jesse’s voice, a coldness that coming from anyone else would be menace. It chills Hanzo in a new, awful way and freezes his protest in his throat. He watches, utterly helpless, as Jesse cuts strips out of his serape. He makes a compress out of some and uses the others to tie them in place. What’s left of it he wraps back around his shoulders.

Jesse’s arms slip under his shoulders and knees, and Hanzo clings reflexively to the straps on Jesse’s body armor as he lifts him off the ground. The sudden change in position makes the dizzy feeling so much worse, the nausea almost overwhelming. Jesse adjusts his grip, then he starts walking.

All Hanzo can do is keep quiet, try not to make things worse. He can hear voices, the occasional whine of a car, and but they never seem to get close. He loses track entirely of where they are and how far they’ve gone. Entirely useless thoughts flicker through his mind instead, like how he’s come to like the smell of gunpowder, but only on Jesse’s clothes. He tips his head closer to Jesse's chest and breathes deep.

Eventually, the only sound is that of Jesse’s labored breathing. By then Hanzo has given up even the pretense of watchfulness, having let his eyes slip closed. He is still cold, but a numbness has settled over him. He could almost forget why it is Jesse is carrying him.

He misses the moment he slips from Jesse’s arms to something firm and cold. He can’t help the thin moan that escapes his teeth. He knows he needs to be quiet, but he is so cold. Then there are voices, loud ones, and he opens his eyes in a panic.

Jesse is bent over him, but so are other people. He can’t quite make them out until a soft, golden light lights up the dark space he’s lying in. It’s the van, and one of the faces is Dr. Ziegler. Hanzo sighs, mostly in relief, and closes his eyes again. Somehow Jesse did it, got them both out. 

Dr. Ziegler does something that robs him of almost all sensation. The only thing he can feel is a hand wrapped around his, and only that until he succumbs to the gentle relief of unconsciousness.

* * *

There’s a particular kind of tiredness that comes with nanite treatment. It’s as if every individual part of you is exhausted all at once.

And it doesn’t grow more pleasant with practice.

Hanzo just lies with the feeling, hoping sleep will come again. There’s something warm at his back, not uncomfortable but hard to place. It moves rhythmically, which is puzzling. Beds don’t do that.

He cracks his eyes open. It’s dim, a darkness punctuated with dozens of tiny lights, but it’s the sound that clues him in to where he is. The droning of the Orca’s engines is both distinct and familiar.

How did he end up on the Orca? He had been doing something somewhere else—

Hanzo’s hand flies to his side, but instead of blood he feels gauze. He has only the vaguest memories of what happened after he collapsed. Jesse must have—but where is Jesse?

“Whoa, whoa, you’re all right.”

The words rumble in the space behind him, and he feels more that hears them. He cranes his neck and sees Jesse’s face, just barely lit by what little light there is and utterly unreadable.

Hanzo is lying propped up against Jesse, encircled by his arms instead of any of the harnesses. It’s not the SOP, exactly, but Hanzo can’t say he minds. This is by far the most comfortable he’s ever been on the Orca. He looks around, but the troop compartment is empty. It wouldn’t be the first time Dr. Ziegler chased everyone up to the deck when she thought a patient needed quiet.

Hanzo relaxes back into Jesse and reaches up to twine their fingers together. Jesse squeezes his fingers just a bit too tightly, and pressed this close Hanzo can hear him swallow. He’s tense, Hanzo realizes. Why is he tense?

Jesse shifts, tilts his head until Hanzo can feel his breath on the shell of his ear. Hanzo twists toward him a little, curious but strangely wary. What happened that he's forgetting?

“Never ask me to leave you behind. Not like that.” His voice is soft, almost wavering, and his arms tighten around Hanzo as he speaks.

Hanzo’s own words come back to him. He had only been pleading with Jesse to live, but the explanation dies in his throat. Lying here half-mended, he doesn’t think he could make Jesse understand. If their positions were reversed, Hanzo knows Jesse couldn’t convince him.

Instead Hanzo twists a little further, ignoring the twinge in his side, and kisses Jesse as sweetly as he can. It's easier than saying what he means, than saying what Jesse means to him. Hanzo fears that even if he tried to reach for the words, none would be sufficient. Jesse pulls away before Hanzo is really done, but he presses his lips to Hanzo's temple in parting. When he settles back, he seems to actually relax. 

“Okay,” he says, mostly just to himself, but Hanzo pretends he understood. Then, a little more sure, “Go back to sleep, darlin’. I got you.”


	3. "Easy there" and broken ribs (plus pining)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Hurt Jesse, Major Injury, Pre-slash, Self-Sacrifice

In the instants between the flash and the shockwave, there is just enough time to remember it was always going to end this way.

Maybe not _blown to bits by breached fuel cells_ precisely, but death was never going to come softly, not to you. Not when you’ve spent so long spitting in his face. Not when he should have had you so long ago.

You’ve been borrowing every second, every heartbeat, since you were seventeen. Since you found yourself staring down the barrel of those Hellfire MK-1s. That was the moment you were meant to die—under the unforgiving desert sun, terror and resignation paralyzing you, your empty revolver heavy in your hand.

He was no cop. You knew cops. He was force incarnate, death made flesh, come to put you in the ground. You did the only thing left to you—stare him down with your teeth bared in pointless defiance.

You were going to die an outlaw’s death—violent and young—and it was everything you’d feared and hoped it would be. The _click _of your firing pin hitting empty air still was still ringing in your ears, and in the moment it seemed right that it would be the last thing you heard, but the man said five words you never quite could believe—

“Mother_fucker,_ he’s just a kid.”

—and the barrel of the shotgun dropped away.

Everything that came after never quite felt as real as that moment. Like you did end up dead on that blistering August day, and each one since was spent in some kind of purgatory. Even the in good moments, the best moments, you couldn’t help but wonder when your time would run out.

This, though, this feels realer than anything ever has. 

Stare into the blaze. Facing death feels as important now as it did then. At least this time, no one came for you. You saw the Talon gunship start to leave its pad. You saw the fuel cells just behind. You knew the rest of the team was far enough away, so you lifted your revolver, and this time it didn’t dry fire.

The leading edge of the blast parts your feet from the ground. Weightlessness makes your stomach jump, makes your head spin—

Remember the night before, under the stars. Remember how good the pretty expensive scotch tasted. Remember wondering if it tasted better on Hanzo’s lips.

Regret, truly, deeply, being too much of a coward to find out.

—but gravity can’t be denied for long. Crash back to the pavement, landing hard on the unflinching earth. All the air evacuates your lungs at once, leaving them to spasm on nothing. Inhale, finally, involuntary and desperate. Heat blisters your throat, like the devil’s finally come for his due. There’s no oxygen in the air you manage to gulp down, just smoke and debris.

Try to lift yourself. The world tilts and spins. Collapse back instead. Your skull feels like it’s been split in two, every thought sluggish and muddled. It’s hard to breathe. Something clicks in your chest every time you try.

There is shouting. Another blast buffets you, throws more debris into you. Barely feel it.

If you’d died when you should have, it would have been quick.

If you’d died when you should have, you wouldn’t be guessing at what Hanzo’s lips would have felt like. The sting of his rejection would have been hell but maybe he would have indulged you.

Breathe again. Groan through the grinding bones.

Black spots swarm your vision. Close your eyes. Try to sip air as gently as you can. This isn’t an outlaw’s death, not really, but it’s still okay. At least your team won’t get mulched by enemy aircraft. Now it’s just a matter of the Talon stragglers finding you, unless whatever you broke in the fall gets you first.

The shouting is closer now. Funny, it sounds like your name

* * *

Blink your eyes open.

That’s odd. You were supposed to be dead.

Study what’s in front of you—a ceiling, washed grey by the lack of light. It could be anywhere. There’s nothing to distinguish the plane above you, nothing telling about the light fixture or the bubbling paint.

There are worse things than dead, and you don’t know where you are. The possibility of being in an enemy facility sits at the midpoint of _bad_ and _probable_, so you twist to try to get your bearings.

That was a mistake. Your whole body aches, your chest especially. Fail to stifle the moan behind your teeth.

“Easy, Jesse. Please, don’t move.”

That voice—

Search until you find the source, because _Hanzo_ sitting bedside stretches your credulity. The kind of foolish hope it would take to dream that up abandoned you years ago. Your infatuation, bright, silly thing that it is, is only that. Or at least, that’s what seemed prudent to tell yourself.

But there he is.

He looks _rough_. Hair falling out of its bun, clothes rumpled, dirt smeared in a damning line across his cheek. He’s frowning at you, hand hovering over your shoulder like he’s not quite sure if he should touch.

Really, really wish he would.

“Fancy meetin’ you—”

Your lungs betray you, leave you choking on your words. The coughing sends a fresh wave of agony through your beaten body. Hanzo hisses in sympathy, his hand finally falling to your shoulder.

“Don’t try to talk. You were hurt very badly in the blast.”

“I noticed.” There’s still a menacing flutter when you whisper, but it’s not so bad.

His frown deepens. That shouldn’t charm you the way it does. Don’t attempt to stop the cheeky grin that pulls at your lips. He takes a deep breath, then blows it out very slowly through his nose.

“I am glad you’re in a good mood. The rest of us found today—” he pauses to chew his lower lip. He still hasn’t moved his hand. “_Trying_.”

He looks away from you, almost like he’s suddenly shy. Wish he wouldn’t. Wish someone had left the light on, so you could see him better. Lift your hand to cover his. It hurts, but it’s worth it when he looks at you again.

“’S all right.”

“That is patently false. You were almost killed because—because—did they suffer some sort of equipment failure? No one saw what set the explosion off.”

“I did.”

Hanzo stares at you. Shock has wiped his face clean of any expression.

“You did. “ His voice is even. Too even. Like he’s very carefully schooling his reaction.

“I blew it. Better’n the alternative.”

“I fail to see—”

“Would’ve killed y’all.”

“Unacceptable.” He’s settled on being angry. Not surprising, knowing him. He snatches his hand away to ball it up in his lap. “How could you think that was better?”

Because there’s one of you and there were five of them. Because you were only ever on borrowed time anyway. Because losing him before you could work up the courage to tell him seems worse than dying with the secret.

“Just made sense.”

The way his face darkens is obvious, even in the bad light. Oh, he’s very angry with you.

“How dare you think you could just get yourself blown up before I could—”

His teeth click shut, eyes wide with panic. Your heart flutters in your chest.

“’Fore you could do what?”

Time seems to slow again. He couldn’t mean—

“Before I could tell you—” A hysterical little laugh bubbles out of chest. “That you are infuriating and fascinating, and I treasure every hour with you, and if we had buried you today I would never have forgiven you.”

Oh maybe you are dead, and ended up somewhere better than you ever deserved. 

“Yeah?” You are weightless again, in the best way. “Me too.”


End file.
